


Running My Hands (Through His Hair)

by ignited



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hair, Hair-pulling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-22
Updated: 2007-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Maybe you'll last more than a fucking minute, Princess.”</i> If the shampoo doesn’t kill you, the food will, in all the right kind of ways. So goes Sam’s line of thought when there’s Dean, his damn hair, too small beds, and too much pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running My Hands (Through His Hair)

**Author's Note:**

> First (posted) SPN fic! Figures it involves some kind of kink. **regala_electra** wanted naughty fic after we talked about the awesome that is Jensen’s hair and… yeah, 7,000+ words later, this is the result. Title from The Beatles’ “Here, There, And Everywhere”. A million thanks to my darling **regala_electra** for working her beta magic, discussion, and gleefully evil encoragement, for without her this fic would not exist _and_ there'd be no pie.

It starts in Nanuet, New York, and they’re fucking twice a day at an inn, small little double beds with blue and white checkered patterns, doilies, knowing glances and antiquing places here and there, people say, gestures down long, upturning roads.

Dean’s never been one for taking much time with his hair, the way this story goes; he’ll deal with whatever complimentary slip of soap, or little bottle of cheap shampoo, or if Sam’s generous, whatever he’ll pick up at the local pharmacy or department store. He doesn’t use Sam’s stuff because it’s too fucking girly, and it isn’t like he needs to do much because it’s short. It’s practical. It’s sexy, and so on, and so on; “The fuck you puttin’ in your hair, Sammy, Christ, it’s like an Avon catalogue or a goddamn Herbal Essences commercial,” he’ll say, and that’s when it starts.

He breathes it in, finishes the sentence with a bite of Sam’s left earlobe as punctuation, and Sam exhales, a whuff of air that blows away strands of his hair that aren’t sweaty, that aren’t plastered to his forehead, to Dean’s temple as he leans in, whispers brief against Sam’s cheek. “Dude, I think…” and here’s when he’d say, _I think the most important thing here is that you’re reading Avon, since when?_ only Dean moves downward, trails lips against Sam’s chest, belly, and it comes out more like, “fuck” and “Avon, what?”

“Doctor’s office,” he says, or Sam thinks he says – he isn’t sure, it’s a gruff whisper as Dean’s body, Dean’s head slides down out of vision, and Sam’s neck cranes, head lolls back. “Good conversation starter.”

Sam’s hand flails, wildly, grips Dean’s neck, shoulder, back to his neck, and he pushes him down, glances at the curve of his mouth and a brief glance of freckles and then, right there? It starts.

The jeans have come off, and the boxers, too, five minutes ago and five minutes too soon – too soon to run – ‘cause Dean just – Just. He’s like fucking _nuzzling_ , or some shit like that, against Sam’s thigh when he goes down, beard stubble first, and before Sam can complain, Dean chuckles low and moves his head, rubs his hair, slicked the wrong way, soft, softness of short hair wipes and tickles the inside of Sam’s thighs and before, _before_ he can run, hotwire the car, and drive the fuck away, he comes the moment Dean’s hair brushes, presses, soft against his thighs.

Dean pulls back almost immediately, head dips and his eyes slide upwards. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, Sam. I didn’t – holy, I didn’t even _do_ anything.”

The thing about Dean is, too, that he’s got the ability to render anything collegiate or scholarly or whatever out of Sam’s _brain_ , he decides, and he doesn’t do much other than jut out his jaw and say, through clenched teeth, “It’s not—”

“You’re so _easy_ , Sammy,” he says, and he takes Sam’s dick into his mouth, lapping him _up_ , so that’s the end of that conversation.

 

-

 

Three days in the same town and not one peep of the spirit they’re out for. The only enjoyment Sam’s getting out of this is the local library and the awkward sex – awkward being the inn apparently rent out rooms to small children, or something; Dean thinks it’s hilarious that Sam’s legs dangle this way and that off the edge of the bed. But to be fair, even if they lash the beds together it won’t fit a sated, sweat and whiskey Dean, all jerking arms and spread eagle posture while asleep. It’s a miracle Dean’s back hasn’t gone out, the way he sleeps like he’s a contortionist in his dreams, mouth open and a half-grin to match. That visual doesn’t help Sam at all, no, so he coughs and returns to the research.

The library’s pretty stocked when it comes to the occult, little books that fit into Sam’s large hands like nothing. The books haven’t been checked out for the past decade or two, so Sam makes a mental note to ask to see if he could buy some (A shake of his head and creaky oak chair legs, Dean leans back with his hands behind his head as an answer, _My geeky kid brother._ ).

On the fourth night, after Dean’s been clawing at the walls and Sam thinks he shouldn’t have read into the metaphors of _The Yellow Wallpaper_ for eleventh grade English, they waste the spirit and get slimed in the process as they are prone to do when there’s a spirit with the vocabulary of ‘sucking’ and ‘bone marrow’ involved.

The laundry pile’s like Mount Everest at this rate; Sam, he pulls off his shirt and examines it, pokes a finger through a hole near the stretched out collar. “That was disgusting.”

“Understatement of the year,” is Dean’s reply, a shrug of his shoulders, brushes Sam’s shoulder, upper arm, as he leans forward to shove a faded Zeppelin tee back into his duffel. “Man, I feel like ass all over. It got in places I didn’t even know I _have_ , and this is _me_ talking.”

“I don’t wanna know,” should be the response, but Sam’ll blame Dean for everything later ‘cause he just cranes his neck when Dean straightens and plants a kiss on his neck, sloppily, without warning, just to – yeah, Dean scowls. Sam lets a laugh slip, fingers bunching and clamping his wasted, slimy t-shirt. “You’re disgusting,” is what he says.

“At least I’m not being domestic. Cut that shit out,” Dean grouses, whaps Sam’s rising forearm with his shirt. But Sam’s already pulling the shirt from Dean’s fist and knocking their hips together, leather belts catch and his long fingers hook through Dean’s belt loops. He pulls him, close, grinds his hips against him and breathes against his temple, the soft, short strands of Dean’s hair there.

“Shower later,” he instructs, laughs as Dean rolls his eyes and grins in the span of two seconds, a smirk that plays over his lips when he shifts his weight and plows right into his brother, pins him on the bed.

Their legs knock, painfully, but they laugh and Dean grips, shoves the duffel out from under the small of Sam’s back. Fingertips, the faintest touch against his skin, back, the hipbone before he grips Sam’s wrists and grinds his crotch against Sam’s. It’s stupid, they’re acting like they’re twelve or something – just nips and tongue, and just _grinding_ , rubbing. Sam’s cock strains against his boxers, pants, his fingers barely working right to try and pull his zipper, pull them down with one hand, the other planting a death grip on Dean’s shoulder. He won’t let him fucking get up for anything, and Dean pulls away, brief, only to buck and drive himself closer to Sam. The bodies backpedal, and they’re half sitting, half lying, half _something_. His shoulders knock against the headboard as Dean straddles him, twists his fingers in his hair and kisses _there_ , juncture of neck and jaw, _there_ , shoulder, _there_ , his chest, his belly.

Dean pulls at his belt with one hand feebly, the other bracing against the headboard as Sam keeps pulling at him, and he knocks, rubs his head against Sam’s bare shoulder.

Sam shakes the strands of hair that fall into his eyes and hums, breathes out heavy to peer down at the top of Dean’s hair, the way it’s slick with sweat – and slime, too, it’s smells kinda bad – and Dean like, he rubs his head against Sam’s shoulder, short hair Sam wants to touch (and does, wipes a thumb and index finger through), and bite, and every goddamn thing that’s coming into his brain that he shouldn’t really think about because it doesn’t make any fucking sense—

He feels this release, like a dam, only not as corny – Sam comes right there, groans, Dean’s hand halfway touching/gripping Sam’s hipbone.

“ _Dude_.”

Sam turns his head away, ignores and tries, _tries_ , but his body won’t listen. There’s come down his front, boxers, jeans pull against the angles of his hips. And there’s a shudder to his muscles, spent and weary, the room and its cheery country decorations fuzzy, then sharper in his vision. He laughs, a little, sucks in air in a gulp, maybe two, as Dean leans back a few inches.

“Did you just – you’re like fucking _twelve_ ,” he says, first, smirking at Sam’s half-hearted scowl. “I just rubbed my damn head on your shoulder. My _head_. I think you’re takin’ this hair thing a little too far, Sam.”

“I don’t have a _thing_ , you idiot,” Sam growls, jerks and shoves away Dean’s hand resting against the wall near his left shoulder. Dean pulls back, shoves Sam’s legs out of the way to lean back on his elbows. Or he attempts to, ‘cause the beds are, you know, doll-size. Sam sighs exaggeratedly, because he replays the last line over in his head and his brother quirks his eyebrows. “I’m just tired.”

Dean chuckles because he’s an asshole, runs a hand through his hair. He frowns, makes a face when he stares at his hand. At Sam’s look, he shakes his head, eyes wide and mocking. “Bullshit, you _freak_.”

“I’m gonna go take a shower.” Sam stands and shakes a little, pulls his boxers and jeans up, eyes up and focusing on the juncture between old eighties flowered ceiling and cigarette smoke engrained wood paneling. Dean’s looking over his way but Sam swipes his towel quick out of his duffel on the floor near the bathroom.

The door barely closes when Dean calls out, “I’ll make sure never to use any of your girly shampoo if it makes you get off like a goddamn fifteen year old!”

 

-

 

There’s a moment, in memory or dreams (when they all shift together), where they’ve been on the road for months and ages, too many lives saved, died, when Sam realizes that Dean hasn’t cut his hair for a while, that it’s growing out. Small hairs, small brown bangs that brush against Dean’s forehead, that he wipes away nonchalantly, brings his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel like he hasn’t moved them at all.

“You’re growing your hair out,” Sam states, taps a pen on the book on his lap to the beat of the Deep Purple song playing.

Dean makes a noise of dismissal, leans to peer through the rain-streaked window. Headlights flash briefly against his face, eyes all green, too green, for a moment, spindly shadows cast against his forehead, nose. “I just haven’t gotten a haircut in a while.”

“Sure, ‘cause you’re always ragging on me to cut _my_ hair,” Sam responds, cants his head, “it’s perfectly understandable that you’d forget to cut your own.”

“Yeah, but you gotta understand, a normal human being can’t see through that mop. The day you narrowly avoid missing my ass with a crossbow ‘cause you can’t see is the day I _end_ you.”

“So you get your own pass ‘cause you’re you, right?” He’s trying not to sneer, or roll his eyes, or anything; taptaptap, the song’s over, commercial. And he’s also trying not to bring up Dean’s obsession with making sure his ass is never harmed in a fight, for all the scars and wounds that they’ve collected over the years (that Sam enjoys counting, one by one, with his fingertips), the ass should be the last of his worries.

“Fast learner,” Dean says, runs his fingers slow, up and through and over, through his hair and Sam just bites the corner of his lip, tries not to look up from the map. Damn it, he’s – Dean is _teasing_ him, that light dancing in his eyes as he looks over to say to Sam, “I’m older. That’s the rules.”

Before Sam can open his mouth, they’re at a diner, or a motel, he isn’t sure which. The car’s slowing into a parking space and Dean leans over, dips his head and states against the curve of Sam’s jaw, “You know you like it.”

He would’ve added, ‘bitch’, but Sam ignores Dean’s plastered on smirk and clamps a hand on the back of his brother’s head, kisses him hard on the mouth. Fingers twine through Dean’s hair, little bangs that push against Sam’s forehead, and Sam just groans into Dean’s mouth, twitch of his lips and smile on Dean’s part. Dean nudges his head a little, the bastard, lets Sam get a better hold of his head, palm and fingers planted, running, through his hair. Their skins are cast in blue and red from neon signs outside the dashboard window, the dashboard a low buzz/rumble of music in tune with the strokes of Sam’s fingers.

It’s a moment that slips away, and Sam isn’t sure if it’s happened or will happen or just nothing at all. It recedes into passing thoughts and memories like so much water.

 

-

 

Couple days later they’re in Lehighton, Pennsylvania, where Sam begins to suspect that it’s en vogue for slimy hauntings this month – or blood, some kind of viscous fluid, and no, I’m not gonna _touch_ it, Dean, triple dog dare or not – and that’s where Sam finds Dean combing his hair in the morning.

Dean doesn’t really _mess_ with his hair. Not really. Sure, he’ll like comb it with his fingers, but that’s it, that’s all, there’s no reason for him to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless, pushing and prodding and oh hell.

Sam doesn’t even _say_ anything because, well, same old, same old, Dean doesn’t need fuel to the fire when Sam’s half asleep to begin with, feeling almost-not-quite-going-to-be-soon hard and really needing to pee. “Hurry up, I have to take a leak.”

“Go ahead,” Dean says, taps the comb against the thumb, curve of his other wrist, looking down at his hands before he looks up at Sam, glances at the mirror. “Not like I’m in your way or anything.”

“I don’t want an audience,” Sam growls, rubs at the crust in the corners of his eyes, feeling groggy and his muscles ache, a twitch to his right calf. It’s the stupid doll bed.

They’ve got new ones, mattresses not yet disgusting, at this new motel, decorated with designated shag carpeting and furniture two decades too old, but he’s still sore, feels like there’s indentations in his skin. He can’t complain though, ‘cause Dean’ll call Sam or a princess or worse and it isn’t fair that his brother could pass out on a bed of nails and still be functional the next day and not, you know, dead.

“I’ve seen your dick plenty of times, Sam. If anything, you should be asking me to see mine more often. You might learn a thing or two,” he says, whaps the comb against Sam’s ass. Dean brushes his arm against Sam’s back, lingering scent of something all over Dean, before he leaves the bathroom.

Sam feels his nose twitch and he says, after a cough to clear his throat, “Dude, you’re _totally_ using my fucking shampoo!”

 

-

 

It’s when Dean steps out of the shower, soaking, hair styled to a tiny fauxhawk, not just sticking up this way and that, that Sam closes his laptop and he’s glaring, because it continues. Dean drums one, two, one two, fingertips against his belly, runs knuckles up the ridges of muscle, his eyebrows up, the towel low around his waist. He carries on like it’s a conversation already done with, says, “For once we got a decent shower. Wanna join and get my hair all nice and soft?”

He feels this noise at the back of his throat, and it just comes out, a little sound that he clamps his jaw shut against, too weak, too _exposed_. Dean’s just raising an eyebrow now, but he heard it, Sam knows. “You…”

“Pervert? That’s my line, dude,” Dean says, traces the ridge of his hipbone in a slutty, stupid, _stupid_ fucking way. He nearly tosses his damn head back, this double-eyebrow raise points towards the too-perfect tousle of his hair, _don’t you just want to mess this all up?_ is the question. “C’mon. Open invitation. Just don’t step on me in there, Sasquatch, I bruise easy.”

Five minutes later – three, actually, but five sounds less desperate and less hurting and banging limbs in a rush to get _in_ , get in there, _now_ – they’re face to face in the shower, or face to jaw, Dean’s short, hell, maybe even _eye_ to jaw. But Sam cranes his head, down, kisses Dean hard. The shower head barely misses nicking Sam’s temple, the way they keep angling and trying not to stagger or fall out over the low border of porcelain and tile. Dean bites and sucks at Sam’s lips, too fast to concentrate or you know, _not stagger_ , ‘cause Sam can barely wipe his hair that’s sticking all around his face, little points, into his vision.

Thing is, Dean’s doing it ‘cause he knows it’ll make Sam beg, and it _does_ , his mouth open, breathes and sucks in droplets when he says, rough, _please Dean, I want to come in your mouth_ , and then Dean just stops.

His lips look swollen, wet. It’s a pinked red that looks like Dean’s already been sucking Sam, tongue flicks out of Dean’s mouth, a natural tic he’s had for ages, forever, one that sends a throb to Sam’s dick. Sam’s vision seems blurred at the edges, sharp on Dean’s mouth, nose, eyes, until all he tastes is water and _Dean_.

But here, Dean backs off and turns around, water courses diagonal and straight, before Sam can say—

Dean says, “I’m not offering up my ass. You wash my back and I’ll make sure you see stars when you finally fuckin’ come.”

His throat feels dry all of a sudden, so the words come up rough and desperate. “Promise. You promise me?”

It isn’t a real question. Not here it isn’t.

And Dean turns his head, just a catch of that look in his eyes, telling the truth, “You know I would, Sammy.”

The shampoo bottle hasn’t fallen yet, even when Sam angles an arm around Dean to grab it out of the slippery recessed alcove. Sam gets a good lather building up and starts to work it into Dean’s hair. Dean braces himself, close, against the tiles, water sluices down the curve between shoulder blades, down, down, down, over soft little ridges of backbone. After a minute or two, Dean’s eyes are half-open and he groans at Sam’s fingers, his mouth half-open, too slack for a smirk, just on automatic, _automatic_.

Little streams of water run down the angles of Dean’s face, catching his eyelashes and it makes them look even longer than normal – and that’s saying something. It’s a look, to his eyes, to his mouth, that makes Sam think, just for a split-second, that Dean’s still got some innocence left to tarnish.

His fingers pull away and slide down the length of Dean’s back, rub swirls of soap around and down the curves of muscles, to the places where Dean’s body goes flat and hard, then to the corded muscles, old hurts that need extra attention, care, if Sam can get away with it. He starts to work Dean’s abdomen after a while, does a lazy path that goes down, down, impatience and his cock informing his motions, his actions.

Dean gets Sam's arms tucked around him in a death lock, pulls him in close, nuzzling wet locks against Sam's cheek. He’s laughing rough and saying, “That wasn't a part of the deal. You try to hump me and I'm so gonna kick your ass.”

“Go ahead and _try_ ,” Sam answers, all false bravado as he grins, licks and bites, quick, soft, at Dean’s earlobe.

He can stagger, and he can grasp against the tile, fingers splayed, when Dean turns around, a streaky noise under bare, wet feet that skid across tile. Dean reaches up and tugs Sam’s hair off his face, pushes it away rather than behind his ear or something. “You and your damn hair and your stupid fetishes.”

By now they’re both hard, ridiuclously, and fuck if Sam doesn’t – doesn’t – their dicks rub up against each other. Sam’s sharp intake of breath, like he’s just about to come right _now_. Dean catches on though. He breaks away, says, “I’ve got you, Sammy.”

Blue green tile, blue green, seasick fucking tile, oh _God_. Sam can’t concentrate. His hand goes out, all wild, grabs the back of Dean’s head. Dean’s hair feels soft and pliant under his fingers. If Sam wasn’t half-crazed at the moment, he’d appreciate it, the soft brush of warmth, of perfect, underneath his fingertips. He isn’t though, clear or focused, not when Dean slides his right hand down Sam’s ass, the left hand jerking off Sam’s dick. It isn’t perfect or right (it’s left, says a crazed, yes, _crazed_ voice in Sam’s brain); the resident expert is right-handed after all.

The pressure changes a fraction, shower kicking in, pumping more, half stutter spurt for a second, and full on blast. Sam bites, sucks at Dean’s neck and he hasn’t felt this way in ages, like he _is_ a stupid fifteen year old. Dean confirms this when he angles, moves, angles his head to catch Sam’s lips and they kiss. It’s already too long in here, but it’s long enough, time right enough, damn, Sam’s _ready_ enough, for Dean’s hand to grip Sam’s ass, rough, little noise of _you better be ready ‘cause I ain’t stopping_.

The hand moves lower, still, and they’re been on the edge of not-orgasm too long, Dean’s fingers sliding up the crack of Sam’s ass, and finally, _finally_ , his finger starts to push up against Sam, inside him. He bites Sam’s bottom lip at the same time, runs his tongue over the edge of the bottom row of Sam’s teeth.

When there isn’t tongue, Sam can’t help but almost knock teeth as the release courses through him. He feels a shiver through his bones, like they’re poking and stretching too big for his skin to hold, itches right through and down to his toes. He thinks in opposites for these few seconds, to pull away and pull close, to just move in turn with Dean and let his body _go_ , closer, ride out until he can’t see any more. Anything else.

Until it gets _better_ , better, but Sam already feels himself go slack and brace onto Dean’s shoulders, scramble, his hips, head resting on Dean’s shoulder.

“Got you, Sammy,” says Dean, a brief kiss against his temple when he pushes wet hair out of the way. _I got you_.

 

-

There’s a restaurant down the street, so when they aren’t researching, doing laundry, or working on killing the damn spirit, they plop down into worn seats spent like after cramped sex in gas station bathrooms, exercises in acrobatics and opportunities for Dean to curse, bare his teeth and knock his forearms against rusty pipes.

Dean orders beef short ribs with mashed potatoes, Sam has the same. The food’s gone in a few minutes, strange for Dean, who savors food like it’s his last damn meal. Dean licks his fingers when he finishes before Sam’s done, and Sam keeps poking, spearing forkfuls and picking up ribs with his fingers, swift, ‘cause if anything, it’s years of eating quick before his big brother gets at it, ingrained in his blood and god, it tastes so fucking good.

He moans, can’t help it, quiet-like, deep in his throat, and hell, if Dean throws him an interested look, it’s really isn’t his fault.

It’s not like he’s _licking his fingers_ though, and the way Dean does it, it’s almost obscene. If anything, it’s just the kind of indecent public behavior that can still get you thrown into jail, only Dean would be _proud_ to get arrested for that; he’d grin the whole time, too.

Sam gets offered a slice of pie by the waitress and Dean _bats_ his eyelashes at her, asking for whatever's the best and they wind up with a trio of pies in front of them. Trio being the operative word – the restaurant’s hard wood and mirrors, little fake flowers in swirls of plastic and porcelain – so it doesn’t mean a fancy little arrangement of three bite-sized offerings of some trendy type of weird on a plate. This place isn’t pretending to be upscale, so the trio’s just three slices, three _huge_ slices of pie that Sam reckons are each half the size of his _head_ (his fingers unconsciously go up and try to comb through his hair at this; he hasn’t gotten a chance to comb it and it’s late anyway, but damn, they’re like. Really huge. Head-sized.).

So the slices are really big, and they’re in different flavors – two flavors each, six flavors, six half-slices from the three which doesn’t do any favors for Sam’s addled, formerly sated, suddenly ravenous stomach.

Dean may or may not be tearing up at the waitress, his eyes glinting bright as he inaudibly swallows his thanks, Sam isn’t sure, but hell if he’s ever seen him grin in that maniacal way that doesn’t involve a salt and burn. Minute or two later and the ice cream that the waitress brings over, Sam just – man, it nearly makes Sam grin the same way as his brother.

Fork and knife in hand, Dean sniffs and pokes at each slice, slipping into the role of expert food connoisseur. “Let’s see. We got chocolate mousse, banana cream… Oh, I think that’s blueberry. Yeah. This one _here_ is apple,” and Dean kind of shakes his head at this, but takes a small bite with his fork anyway.

“Pecan,” he continues with a different slice, rearranging the plates so the chocolate mousse and banana cream pie are already on Dean’s side of the table before Sam can say any different. “And cherry pie.”

He nudges the plate in Sam’s direction, Sam accepting it while pulling the apple pie over. Pecan or blueberry, one of them’s getting it if they survive the first few slices.

But Dean, see, he just nods to the cherry pie and says, with a wave of his hand, “That’s for you because I got to pop your cherry first.”

Sam huffs, which is a bad idea when one’s got pie half in his mouth, sends little crumbles down on the plate that Dean friggin’ laughs at.

They pick at each other’s plates with darting forks. It must be a holiday, or his birthday, or Dean’s been replaced by a clone, ‘cause Dean doesn’t say anything other than, “you have to try this,” and Sam does. Dean practically inhales the pie slices, fork going here and there, swallows and drinks his milkshake (because pie and beer just don’t go together), washes bites down. It’s strange, this, like he’s in a rush when Sam knows Dean likes to take it slow, chewing, flicks his tongue over wet lips and slow, slower – Sam clears his throat, puts a hand to his mouth and coughs. Sam, he swipes another forkful, Dean grunts, and nearly cuts half of Sam’s slice of apple pie to pile onto his plate.

“Hey!” Sam braces an arm around his plates, Dean chewing as he wipes some pie crust away from the corner of his mouth.

“Fair’s fair. We’re even,” Dean reasons, holds up a finger when Sam’s face says that they really aren’t. “Told you. Older. Better hair. Two for two, Sam.”

“You do realize if you go by that line of reasoning it means you’ll be fatter and your hair’ll go grey quicker,” Sam replies, spears a piece of pie that he swirls around in the ice cream.

“No, it doesn’t, asshat,” Dean says, narrows his eyes as he chews with his mouth open, bites and fiddles with the straw of his milkshake. It’s not like _his_ logic is sound either, because hello, milkshake, ten in the evening. “Besides, you’d love it anyway.”

“The grey hair or the pie gut?” Sam makes a face at the cherry, tart and tastes pretty lame. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean, sure, you’re my brother and all, but there’s just so much a guy can take. Pie gut included.”

Dean swallows the rest of his pie slice with a glare, slurping the milkshake pointedly, like too much cholesterol clogging, thin tube. “Funny. You know what else is funny? All those stories about you poopin’ and peein’ on every goddamn surface of the house when you were a baby. You know, the ones I decided to break out only in case of emergency. I’d be more than happy to give your old college buddies a ring.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

“I would. You were a shitty baby, Sammy. I had to spend like half an hour cleaning your ass up when Dad wasn’t around.”

“Dude, I don’t want to even _think_ about that,” Sam grumbles, bites the tip of his straw. He ponders for a moment before he states, grinning from ear to ear, “That’s the same ass you won’t be fucking tonight if you keep bringing that up, Dean.”

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose and murmurs, something, inaudible but Sam’s already slipping his jacket on, knows it’s a throwaway line about how fucking weird their lives are – fucking your brother, that kind of thing – and the pie, well, the pie agrees with him. In terms of being delicious, not the incest thing. Although, you never knew with pie.

Sam attributes this line of reasoning to the fact that he’s horny and Dean would rather spend a minute licking his fork than give a tip, which Sam does, crumpled dollar bills tucked carefully underneath a bare plate.

 

-

The lights are on and somebody’s home but they’re still under street lamps and fuzzy, blink on, blink off neon, they’re right up close near the wet brick outside of the diner. Dean’s fingers are tugging at the hem of Sam’s boxers, small glint of his ring in the dark corner of walls they’re standing near. Sam feels awkward and hard – both feelings not connected, mind you, it’s that the storm drain and little edge of roof of the one-story diner’s slopes too far down, barely an inch or so above his head.

There’s Dean, too, making things _too_ awkward and _too_ hard, Dean is sliding a hand underneath Sam’s shirt and the other into his boxers and he _bends_ , just so, slowly down that Sam feels freakishly tall and large in the dark.

A second or two passes, the only sounds being Sam panting, lips wet and swollen from the mouth _lock_ , practically, that Dean had him in just minutes before. Dean cants his head up, his eyes really green for some odd reason, trick of light or whatever, before they’re half-lidded, slow, slowly turns dark and secretive, and he licks his lips. “Just fuck my mouth and don't grab onto my head. Maybe you'll last more than a fucking minute, Princess.”

The noise Sam makes is not a noise at all, but the face he makes, oh he knows he's going to be mocked _forever_ for it.

Dean wraps his fingers, his hand, around the base of Sam’s cock and it’s over, already – not like _that_ , give a man some credit. It’s over, his mind’ll be gone and _oh_. Dean, Dean, he’s planting kisses, soft, laps at the tip and Sam, when he isn’t jerking, isn’t trying to find some firm footing and solid, solid ground, sees his brother moving back, away from Sam’s dick, to wipe at the corner of his mouth for a moment. It’s too quick, but he knows Dean’s wiping away cherry and fuck if he doesn’t feel higher sensory perception, or, or, oh _god_ \--

You’re a fucking jerk, he thinks, and says, “You’re a fucking jerk,” out loud – least, he thinks he did, ‘cause Dean just grins when he isn’t lapping at the tip of Sam’s cock. Swirls and swirls, Sam, one hand flails, the other grabs onto the edge of scratchy, dirty brick. His shoulder and ass hit the wall, brief, body straightens as Dean continues to suck Sam off.

Then he reaches for Sam’s hand, fingernails dig in, a split second, fingers clamp and he brings Sam’s hand to his head. Drops it, like it’s burning coals and Dean’s got way more interest in cupping Sam’s balls, that little tug that Sam will _kill_ him for. A perfect twist that makes Sam really damn _noisy_ , mouth works open and closed like he’s trying to breathe, or see straight. Sam’s fingers are splayed against the soft-bristle locks of Dean’s head, and it’s then that Dean pauses, his mouth opening even fucking wider, like _you know what to do_.

So he does, he really _does_ , he bucks and pushes, and grabs onto Dean’s fucking head for seconds at a time, hard, the majority spent brushing and rubbing against Dean’s soft hair. Sam’s head goes back, cold snap chill against the column of his throat, his hips buck into Dean’s mouth, body burns, hums, a shiver. It’s a burn, through him, and Dean clamps his hand on Sam’s hip, fumbles, finger through belt loop and they both jerk, shift weight, Dean finds hold again.

It’s all grunts and soft moans from there, Dean just takes Sam in, further, and Sam can’t bring himself to look down when he keeps arching up, body out of control. He comes, finally, cracks an eye open when he isn’t moaning, and sees the glint of light off Dean’s hair, brown, kind of sandy brown in the light but it’s dark and soft to touch. It’s _there_ , with Dean, who’s lapping this up like nobody’s business.

And this is where it ends with Sam, eyes wide, looks up to see a bus of teenagers, like on an overnight trip to the biggest ball of twine or a science museum or the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (Dean’s fault, that last thought) and they just stare when the bus pulls over for gas a few dozen yards down the corner. The bus slows enough for a good view, Sam feels his neck, face, go all red and hot. Dean though, just finishes, wipes at the corner of his mouth – cherry, just minutes ago – and grins.

Sam thinks Dean would give a bow to the passengers if he wasn’t so hard, outline of his erection pressing up against the front of his jeans.

“Oh my God, I’m going to Hell,” Sam says, gritted teeth and trying to focus on not zippering his dick off. He pulls out his flannel shirt over his pants and pulls, adjusts his shirt, hoodie, jacket into place.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, nods to Sam, curious, mild disappointment, like he’s expecting applause. He probably is, the jerk.

Sam waves a hand over at the school bus, eyes narrow to see maybe one or two heads at the back window trying to peer in the dark. Dean gets a good look, and it’s the _Saint Catharine’s School For Girls_ sign on the side that makes him take notice. “Ah.”

Dean claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder after a second of Sam giving the _look_ , says, deadpan, “Dude, fucking your brother. Schoolgirls having a peep show ain’t as high on the list of sick, wrong, and just plain _nasty_.”

Sam just stares at him, unable to think straight or process the last – two, ten, thirty six different thoughts running wild through his brain.

So Dean continues, all helpful, too, “They’re _Catholic_ schoolgirls,” like that explains everything. “They’re gonna be awesomely kinky as it is by the time they hit sweet sixteen.”

“You are so gross.”

Snorting, Dean shrugs at him, “No, I’m dying, ‘cause if I don’t get off soon…”

He leans in, voice gruff, quick. “Hold the shame for later and let’s go back to the motel and fuck,” he says, the ‘fuck’ clipped, real quick, eyes dart and he nods in another direction, over his right shoulder.

The Impala’s alone in the parking lot, a black, rain-slick beacon of warmth and home, and let’s face it, protection from embarrassment. They head towards it on weak legs, or Sam does, Sam whaps Dean’s hand away before they walk. The weather’s kind of rainy, and they walk, step on puddles. They’re barely at the Impala’s doors when Dean slaps Sam on the ass. He points out, “Plus, they got to see real dick. Good thing you're circumcised or you'd really scare the hell of out them.”

Sam’s got enough sense to not dignify that with a vocal response – he answers by unzipping Dean’s jeans and fists him hard and slow, pushing Dean’s ass up against the Impala. There’s a soft whisper grunt and mumbled curse; Dean blows his load, sticky come getting on, ruining – oh hell, whatever – it gets on both their shirts in the process.

But it doesn’t matter if Sam’s up at bat to do the laundry this time, because he doesn’t mind, and just Dean’s face afterwards, now, the silence that follows sex caps the night off in a great, shivery sort of way he can definitely get used to.

 

-

 

Sometimes, Sam thinks libraries are all the same, or that he spends too much time in them. Knows the little nooks and crannies, and no matter the layout he’ll always find the right aisle or stacks to go in – contrary to Dean’s hushed whispers about the musty old textbooks on algebra, _nobody looks at those_ , or things Dean’ll never admit to reading but Sam knows better, he _does_. So he knows all the places where they could fuck, not that he’ll admit the extent of his knowledge, short jaunt as a library monitor in fourth grade something he’d never forget, ‘cause Dean was a _jerk_ , always coming by and sitting with his feet up, or his legs parted, and just—

“Pay attention, dickhead,” Dean snaps, nods at the book he’s holding. Sam’s got an arm stretched out on one high shelf, inside of his bare forearm near Dean’s temple. “I didn’t drag your ass out here so you could stare at those stupid ‘Reading Is Fundamental’ posters all day.”

“But it is. Fundamental,” Sam quips, shrugs and he leans in near Dean to stare at the book. They’re researching now, Dean having found a lead when he wasn’t flirting with the librarian while Sam was out earlier trying to nail a contact. He nods at the open page. “That looks horrible.”

“No shit,” Dean answers, shifts his weight as Sam leans in closer, right above Dean’s shoulder. Dean licks his lips and says, low, “We still need to close that deal.”

“What?” Sam winces, for a split-second, his voice loud and stupid to his own ears. He lowers it, pushes the hair away from his eyes. “Deal?”

“The shower? Make you see stars,” he states, slowly, as if he’s talking to a little kid. “Looks like I got the looks _and_ the brains.”

Sam sucks in a breath as Dean closes the book shut with one hand. “Oh, _that_.” He pauses, murmurs, “Idiot,” to which Dean just smirks, briefly. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, stretches to put the book back on the top shelf, bare skin of his belly and back shows under his grey t-shirt. “Your ass, my dick, it’s gonna happen. When you’re up for it.”

He leaves Sam there, but not after Dean runs a hand through his hair and this is getting ridiculous, Sam thinks, or at least, his dick is out to get him.

 

-

 

Dean doesn’t get his wish ‘til three days down the road, at another motel, in another town, that Sam doesn’t remember other than the headboard’s dusty where his fingers grip and hold for balance. Dean groans against Sam’s ear as he thrusts, says something unintelligible, fingertips dig into the sharp curve of Sam’s hip, his hips buck forward, constant. The room temperature isn’t the best, and the air conditioner’s on all times of the year, so it burns bright when Dean kisses the bare gooseflesh of Sam’s shoulder, nudge of his nose against Sam’s shoulder blade.

And then, Dean, he’s slow-gliding, all smooth, latex-sheathed cock going in-and-out. Sam thanks God (although God might have issues with what they’re doing, yeah) that they’re always prepared, ‘cause lube ain’t easy to find in these old-fashioned throwback towns.

Dean’s fingers are still slicked in it and he jacks Sam off just to keep him on the edge, teetering, fingers digging, clamping the headboard for dear life. It’s making him on the verge of, of, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about what’ll come out his mouth in a few seconds, probably extolling the virtues of one Dean Winchester, best brother and dick this side of – oh, for Christ’s sake.

It’s really good, to tell the truth, but it’s not going to take Sam anywhere until Dean pushes back in, gentle and Sam has to _moan_ , guttural and _embarrassing_ until Dean goes balls-deep.

He feels his body spasm, at this, feels his mouth work independently of his brain because, just, _fuck_ –

“Tell me,” Dean begs, and it’s not clear what he means, what he says, but he’s got his hand, fisting, right around the base of Sam’s cock and all Sam can do is get more out of him by _saying_ something.

It’s hard, this thinking, and his body’s loose, and arching, and Sam’s hands will hurt for days.

Reaching for something from thoughts that are shaking around his head like marbles, that’ll have some effect on Dean, Sam bites out, “I want you to ride me. _Now_.”

It’s a rhythm that’s never the same, that Dean keeps on changing, until Sam groans, bites out a “fuck, _Dean_ ,” to which Dean replies, “I am,” follows with, “Jesus, Sam!”

After he comes, and he pulls out of his brother, the air seems to shift. In temperature, if nothing else. Dean leans his head against Sam’s shoulder, staring at the blank lines of the ceiling as Sam drums his fingertips on Dean’s belly.

They both say each other’s name after a minute, at the same time, then either grunt or laugh.

“I think,” Sam starts, lowers his eyes and flicks his tongue to lick his lips, dry, spent, “you should try growing your hair out for a change.”

Dean laughs as his brow knits, a soft noise of hesitancy before his eyes are half-closed. He sighs. “What am I gonna get out of this crazy idea? Besides—”

Sam shifts his weight and stretches to whisper into Dean’s ear. It’s a torrent of hushed words before he pulls away, eyebrows up.

“Oh,” says Dean, mouth closes shut. He looks surprised. Or horny. Or both; it’s the same look, sometimes, when Dean can’t muster up enough energy to differentiate. He rubs a hand through the soft bristle hair, flattens it near his forehead. “Four.”

“Hell no. Are you kidding me? I need to _walk_ , you know.”

“Three,” Dean growls, eyes narrow. “Three or _I’ll_ walk. To that bar, down the street, you know, mole on her cleavage, bottle blonde?”

“ _Two_ , and we’ll work from there,” Sam says, taps two fingers pointedly around the circle of Dean’s belly button. Taps, briefly, like buttons, like plugging a transaction against flesh, before he asks if it’s a deal.

“Fine, cheap ass. Two, because I’m such a great brother. You’ll be _beggin’_ me for three times,” Dean states, wriggles to sit up, to plant his shoulder blades above the pillows and against the headboard. Lean curve of his belly all sweat-slicked, Dean’s knee knocks against Sam’s elbow. Thank God for people-sized beds so Sam doesn’t feel like he’s gonna topple over when he adjusts, moves a little, sore and weary in all the right ways.

“But I draw the line at your shampoo. I don’t like the smell. And it stings.”

“You’re so _sensitive_ ,” Sam lets slip, and laughs when Dean tries to tackle him. Sheets go flying and the air conditioner putters away when they start on number two for the day.

END


End file.
